


Cruel to be Kind

by AnxiousEspada



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Geralt is trying so save Jaskier‘s life by making him hate him, Hanahaki Disease, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unrequited Love, but hey nobody dies, geralt doesnt have feelings (he thinks), geralt is not as dense as he usually is, jaskier has hanahaki, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23715370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousEspada/pseuds/AnxiousEspada
Summary: If this entire mess wasn’t about him personally, Jaskier would love to write a song on it. From an outsider’s perspective, and with some nicely interwoven wording, the story of a mysterious flower-breathing disease would catch on nicely in some courts, he is sure. The irony of dandelions growing in his chest isn’t lost on him, and he is convinced that there has to be some deeper meaning behind all of this....in which Jaskier‘s love for Geralt becomes a threat for himself, and Geralt has to decide whether the ends justify the means.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 318
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TerraOfTheTeenTitans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraOfTheTeenTitans/gifts).



> (from the witcher kinkmeme):
> 
> Jaskier doesnt know why he keeps spitting flowers.
> 
> Geralt does, though. And while he is not in love with Jaskier, he doesnt want to lose his best friend. The problem is that the only cure is to turn the patient’s love into hate. Geralt tries criticising his singing, breaking the lute, even slaps him around a couple times. It doesnt work.  
> Jaskier is only getting worse. Desperate to save Jaskier, Geralt forces himself on him. It works, but now he has become the monster people say he is.
> 
> :') i have no idea what i'm doing but i loved this prompt a lot. 
> 
> second chapter will be up soon, dont fret!
> 
> enjoy, and heed the warnings as always.

This is the third time since starting his current song that Jaskier has to clear his throat. He isn’t going to lie; he’s getting annoyed. He and Geralt are sitting by a small campfire, a campfire that Jaskier had insisted on, somewhere close to a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. The day has been hard and the travel has been long in the not-quite-yet spring winds, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to soak up some warmth, play a few tunes, and then roll up under his blanket. 

It seems he isn't so lucky. A weird little itch has been in his throat all day, but he’d assumed it was because he'd been doing a lot of screeching on the monster hunt the previous day. He usually knows better than to strain his voice. With an annoyed little huff the bard sets his lute aside to cough properly, hopefully to rid himself of whatever it is that is bothering him. 

"I better not have caught a cold," he whines after finally bringing up a little mucus with his coughing, and wipes his hand unceremoniously on the grass next to him. 

Geralt looks at him from across the small fire, orange reflections in his pale eyes, one eyebrow raised. 

"I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow." Jaskier packs his lute away, safely wrapping it in thick fabric, and lies down, facing his witcher, illuminated. He feels fine otherwise, just a little tired. 

Geralt says "mh," in response, or maybe he doesn’t, and Jaskier falls asleep watching the dying fire play over Geralt's rugged edges. 

-

The sudden noise has Geralt leap to his feet in the early hours of the next day, and his hand is almost at one of his swords before the sound links to its origin, which is Jaskier, sitting upright and wheezing. It’s a miserable sound, and Geralt stalks over, unsure how or if he can help. Jaskier hears him and looks up, pausing with one closed hand resting in front of his face. He lifts it in what is no doubt supposed to be a ‘don’t you worry about it’ gesture, but halfway through he coughs again. Geralt doesn’t know a lot about common colds, he hardly can remember having one even as a child, so he does what he knows to be helpful when a drunkard chokes on a sip of ale, and claps on Jaskier’s back a few times.

With one last wheezing sound, it’s over, and Jaskier spits, and then draws in a deep breath. 

“Here I thought I was going to die on a wee cough! I swear, it felt like something was stuck there, Geralt, thank you for your courageous intervention. Maybe don’t be so brutal next time, will you? You could have-“

The witcher ignores his rambling, although relieved that the other is rambling instead of sounding like a broken pair of bellows, and inspects the ground where Jaskier had spit out.

“Did you eat something strange?” Geralt asks.

“Unless you have too, no! Why do you ask?”

Geralt points to the ground. “This looks like plant seeds. Or pollen.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “That is indeed strange. Who knows, maybe I inhaled some early harbingers of spring yesterday. Either way, it seems it’s gone now, right, so I’ll be just fine.” With more energy than he usually has shortly before sunrise, Jaskier gets to his feet, claps in his hands, and begins packing up. Not worried at all.

Geralt doubts that this is all there is to that. Not a single tree or wheat has even begun thinking of blooming yet. It is still too cold, and too early. He shrugs the feeling off, as he does, and tends to his horse. 

-

Of course, because nothing ever goes right, the weird feeling isn’t gone. Really, it gets worse. Jaskier tries not to think on it too hard. If he’s being honest, he’s just a tiny bit paranoid of getting proper sick. If he’s too sick to earn his coin in the way he usually does, all he can do is hope that whichever corner of the continent he is travelling at the moment knows him well enough to provide for him based on his reputation only. Lucky for him, he is currently on the road with Geralt, and while Geralt sometimes complains about it, most of the time the witcher makes enough to provide for the both of them for a while, not that that happens often. It just means that they share a room, because it’s cheaper. Jaskier certainly doesn’t mind that. 

What bothers him is the constant feeling of _something_ tickling in his chest. He does what he can to stifle the upcoming infection, even if it goes against everything he enjoys. He keeps his casual humming and singing during the day to a minimum, and instead experiments on some chords. He tries to talk less, although that, admittedly, doesn’t work out so well. His urge to fill silences is too strong. And he tries to keep the coughing down, which isn’t as successful either. 

By day four of this, Jaskier is desperately annoyed. No runny nose, no pain when talking, no fever, nothing, but the weird itch in his throat. He gives up on his prevention measures - what’s the use of boring himself to death every day? Travelling without singing or talking is the worst form of torture. He resigns himself to the occasional cough, and talks Geralt into making a slight detour to the marketplace of the little town they’re passing through. Geralt gives in more easily than he usually would, and it’s almost sweet to see. Geralt isn’t as good at hiding his thoughts as he thinks he is sometimes, and Jaskier can tell the witcher is worried for him. 

Sometimes, when Geralt looks at him, Jaskier is convinced there’s a softness in his eyes reserved only for him. It feeds the butterflies in his stomach with sweet hope, even if he knows that witchers can’t fall in love.

-

Life on the road passes quickly and way too slowly all at once. Days spent travelling all feel kind of the same, and road routines are second nature to Geralt. Not even the occasional confrontation with a random monster or some rag-tag bandits get marked as important, unless the danger is more acute than usual. It’s normal that during days when nothing of great importance happens, Jaskier gets in trouble almost automatically. Geralt wonders, sometimes, if Jaskier likes to play the idiot in order to tease some great adventure - after all, the bard is very capable of finding solutions to his problems by his own charms, his word magic, and even by the blade if he must. 

No incidents of this kind or similar stand out to Geralt as they make their way to the next larger town, where Geralt hopes to find his next big contract, seeing how funds are running low. What sticks out instead are Jaskier’s terrible attempts at masking this cough he has contracted. Even after several days, and even after the purchase of one way too costly jar of bee’s honey, it persists. Jaskier is trying hard to hide it. Geralt is trying hard not to notice. 

But, well, this is exactly what Geralt’s senses are trained for; unexpected changes in his immediate surroundings. He notices Jaskier suppressing the urge to cough by clearing his throat, how he strays a bit away from the road every now and then to cough properly, as if Geralt wouldn’t be able to hear it. Bullshit. Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat when he wants to, and how with every passing day his breath becomes more strained. Something is terribly wrong with his friend. He hopes that the upcoming town has a healer who’s read more than one book in their life. He doesn’t want to go through the stress (Horror? Fear?) of having to save Jaskier from choking to death _again_. The memory of those eyes, so painfully young and so scared of dying, while Jaskier sputtered through his own blood is still hard to bear, even now.

No, Jaskier is not going to fucking _die_ from some weird _cold_ , not when Geralt gets a say in it.

Noticing that his thoughts are turning in useless circles, Geralt forces his mind back into the present, just in time for the end of the lengthy story Jaskier was currently retelling in colourful detail.

“- and that is how he lost his hideous donkey’s ears again! Which is a shame, in my opinion, I think a noble house featuring several high and mighty lords and ladies sporting fuzzy accessories would make for quite a few hilarious songs-,” 

_Nope_ , Geralt thinks, and is about to zone out again, when Jaskier’s voice breaks off, turns into a strangled rasp, and Roach stops her trot on her own accord, as if she too is worried for the man. Geralt watches Jaskier lurch forward, hands reaching up and tearing at his collar, as he sputters and hacks violently, until suddenly he almost retches.

“W-what the fuck,” Jaskier whispers, staring at the wet, green leaf that finally lands in his hand. It’s roughly the size of Jaskier’s palm. For a while, even the bard is out of words. Geralt isn’t sure if he says it out loud or if he just thinks it, but he agrees; fuck. 

Jaskier blinks at it, confusion spreading across his face like a wildfire. “What the fuck,” he repeats, more strongly this time, and then turns to Geralt, who has jumped off his horse already, and shows him his hand. “That is a joke,” he says, “that has got to be a joke. Tell me I didn’t just pull this from my lungs.”

Geralt hums. There’s no point in lying. Jaskier laughs, high and shrill, as if he’s going to lose it. Then he schools his face into controlled mirth, and anyone who doesn’t know Jaskier would miss the concern making his bright eyes watery.

“Guess I’m a plant mage now!”

Geralt doesn’t hear him cough again for the rest of the day. 

-

Sleep doesn’t come to Jaskier at all that night. Every time he closes his eyes he sees more leaves fall from his mouth, and with every breath he oh so carefully takes, he thinks he feels more matter grow in his chest that simply doesn’t belong there. He’s not worrying about his singing voice anymore, right now. As he tosses and turns, he racks his brain for who he could have offended to warrant a curse like this. His mind jumps to every magic user he crossed in the past six months, and there probably were a lot more he has forgotten by now. Maybe he did inhale some kind of parasite pollen, and he’s going to turn into a tree soon. He stifles every urge to cough against the sensation in his throat, as if sheer willpower would cure him now. 

Alright, okay, Jaskier has to admit it, at least to himself. He’s fucking terrified. There’s a plant growing _inside of his body_ , for whatever reason, and he has absolutely no idea why it’s happening, or how. Why couldn’t he just have gotten a fever? A flu? Lost his voice for a few days, who cares. He would have talked Geralt into getting to ride Roach until they arrived in the next settlement with an inn, he’d have gotten to complain a bit too excessively, whine and moan until Geralt was so annoyed he’d give in to sharing some comforting body warmth with him, and two days later they would have hit the road again like nothing had happened at all. He can’t believe that this is the type of escapist fantasy he’s having right now. 

He rolls over, acutely aware of a twig trapped under his bedroll. He tries to focus on that, instead of the situation at hand, and wonders if his restlessness is keeping Geralt awake. Just then, Geralt huffs, a low and deep sound, and Jaskier for a moment is convinced that witchers can read minds. He mouths a small sorry into the cold night air, and yearns for the wind to carry his fear away as well. He just wants to be okay again, but then, he also wants a proper hug from someone tall and gruff, and when does he ever get what he wants?

-

Witcher senses be damned. Geralt has just managed to fall asleep, with the sun already promising its arrival in the night sky, when he is woken by Jaskier, again. He rises to a sitting position, thoughts fuzzy from lack of rest, sees a scene like straight from a strange fever dream. As Jaskier coughs and wheezes and shuts his eyes in obvious pain, more leaves fall to the ground. It doesn’t stop there, after four or five miserable green patches, no; the leaves are followed by thin yellow petals. Finally, with a tortured retch, his body cramps up one last time and produces a small, blooming flower. 

Geralt rushes over, but Jaskier seems not to notice his presence, completely caught up in the mess he has made on one of his travelling bags. The witcher can hear his frightened heartbeat, the shaky breathes, currently unobstructed. And he can pick up the scent of the plants, proving that they’re real, not a hallucination or nightmare. 

Without thinking, he places a hand, warm and steady, between Jaskier’s shoulders. The bard flinches and turns, fear and exhaustion in his eyes, and lurches forward into Geralt’s arms. He stifles the irritation bubbling up in his chest for Jaskier’s sake, and holds the trembling man for a moment. 

Humans ears wouldn’t pick up the little mantra of “This is fine, it will be fine,” that Jaskier almost sobs in Geralt’s chest. 

On the ground, the leaves and head of a dandelion slowly begin wilting away, and finally Geralt remembers where he has heard of a disease like this before. He curses under his breath, at himself, for not putting it together earlier.

-

If this entire mess wasn’t about him personally, Jaskier would love to write a song on it. From an outsider’s perspective, and with some nicely interwoven wording, the story of a mysterious flower-breathing disease would catch on nicely in some courts, he is sure. The irony of dandelions growing in his chest isn’t lost on him, and he is convinced that there has to be some deeper meaning behind all of this, but it is kind of hard to figure things out while fearing for your health and sanity. 

He blames the tiredness on his little emotional breakdown, even if he’s surprised how well Geralt handles being cried on. After he manages to get up and part from the bit of comfort, the two clear away their night camp quickly. Jaskier can see that something is bothering the witcher from the way his eyebrows are even more furrowed than usual, but when he asks, Geralt’s grunt only translates to ‘tired.’

Jaskier coughs up two more flowers before they’re even fully back on the road. 

“Gods, this hurts,” he admits. Maybe it’s pretty, and would make a haunting song, but it hurts.

“We should reach the town by midday,” Geralt tells him. “We will find you a healer.”

Roach whinnies, as if she agrees that a healer will fix this problem. Jaskier wants to say something snarky, but his snark is lost in the form of a petal. 

-

A dark, looming feeling in his mind tells Geralt that a healer will not, in fact, be able to fix this problem. Not if this problem is what he thinks it is. Many years ago, perhaps several decades, the details have slipped his mind, Geralt had heard an old wives’ tale in some far off village from a woman that believed herself to be a sorceress when really she was a gifted nurse. 

She had given him information he had needed for a hunt; she had also given him an entire life’s ration of information he thought he would never need again. She told of many great plagues she had sought cures for, one of which being a lover’s disease, but not one that would usually be transmitted through the air or the water. This one, she had said, befell hearts that loved too much and yearned too deeply for something forever out of reach. 

If someone on this earth was to mysteriously contract a disease from loving too much or too many, of course it would be Jaskier. Even someone as detached from emotion as Geralt could notice how adoration was present in Jaskier’s eyes whenever he opened them. 

This disease would grow itself on the befallen one’s heart, thriving on their feelings, and eventually grow root, stalk and leaf. Geralt had only listened with faked attention when the old woman had told him about the case of a young woman who grew hyacinths and cornflowers from her chest, and who nearly suffocated on vines and blossoms clogging up her lungs, mouth and nose. Such a disease couldn’t exist, and if it did, it clearly would have been some mage’s handiwork. 

He scowled at his past self for this. Jaskier was walking beside him, as usual a few steps ahead of Roach’s easy trot and chattering away, but still every now and then disturbed by a wheeze and another flower. By now, other types of flowers had joined the common dandelion. 

What did the woman say about a cure? Geralt closes his eyes and tries to focus, to recall the entire situation, anything to bring a solution to his memory. For a second, he can almost see her silhouette in the dim reddish candlelight. There are two ways to cure the lover’s disease, she had said. One was obvious, the lover’s affections only needed to be returned, their heart’s desire restored to them, as long as they were genuine and came before the lover died. The other one she had claimed to have been forced to use on the poor girl - a forceful extraction. The old lady had mentioned the words operation, and dire consequences, those too. However she had managed to operate on this girl, this girl had never felt love, or joy, or happiness again. 

Geralt remembers that he had chuckled at that. Well, he had been a bit younger then. He wouldn’t chuckle anymore at such a thing.

In front of him, Jaskier’s hair shines in different browns and golds, changing with the way the sunlight filters through the trees overhead. His colours stand out even in the middle of an early spring forest. Despite the underlying stink of fear he still emits and which spikes with every bout of coughing, there’s a spring in his step. He even oohs and aahs at a peculiar tree branch or bird every now and then.

What would Jaskier be like if his heart was taken from him? Would he become like him, a bitter man incapable of affection?

-

He can barely feel his feet as he walks. Jaskier is trying his hardest to distract himself with the most mundane of things, but his hands are too shaky even for his lute. He gathers all his knowledge about plants and flowers and tries to make sense of the dandelions and buttercups collecting in the back of his throat, but the metaphors just don’t match up. Is he too full of himself, is that what the plants are trying to tell him? Or has he gotten his names from the fact that he carried these flowers inside him all his life, and everybody knew except for him?

There seem to be a lot of things he doesn’t know. 

The forest retreats around them just as the sun hits highest in the sky, and immediately Jaskier has to open his doublet in order not to get too warm too quickly. Geralt, in his heaps of thick black armor doesn’t even seem to notice. The gates to the town, surrounded by a low wall, are open and unguarded, which for once is a pleasant surprise. Judging form Geralt’s higher than usual level of grumpiness today, Jaskier assumes it would have needed some extra charm to get past townsguards and closed gates. 

The town is calm enough for people to look apprehensively at Geralt, with some whispers rising up. If the witcher is the scariest thing they have seen in the past few months they should consider themselves lucky, Jaskier thinks, instead of throwing glares around. 

Geralt walks on without batting an eye, straight along the main road leading through the city, as if he’s been here before and knows exactly where he needs to go. Then again, most smaller towns share a similar layout. Either way, Jaskier follows his witcher, and ignores the sharp sensations spiking between his ribs every now and then, like thorns. 

He waits outside the two-story wooden building and attempts to coax Roach into sympathy with some sugar he had hidden from Geralt’s view while the other inquired about a healer. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be so happy with letting Geralt do the talking. But under normal circumstances, he would not be convinced that the next plant to grow out of him is going to be a rose, judging from the returning piercing pain down where his rib cage splits. 

Roach was about to nudge him in the shoulder, he was _sure_ , when another violent spasm ripples through him, causing her to shy away.

-

Geralt manages to scare the alderman of the town, or however he would like to call himself, into promising them a visit from their best healer within the next 24 hours. Not like he has to try much to intimidate him. He knows the look of fear that passes over the man’s face when Geralt’s looming figure appears in the doorway all too well. In some remote places, the reputation that Jaskier has built for him over the past years hasn’t reached yet, or becomes unimportant as soon as people see his glinting yellow eyes. It doesn’t matter right now, what people think of him, because Geralt gets what he wants without being banned from the town. 

It’s not a healer, really, the alderman insists, it’s a doctor. Geralt doesn’t care about that either, because the small promise of hope is enough right now. He is told to wait at the inn closest to the wall they entered the town through, and that the doctor would be there in the morning. Geralt grunts out a thank you before leaving the building again, only because a voice in his head that vaguely resembles Jaskier’s tells him to _be polite, Geralt._

The coppery smell of blood lingers around Jaskier, who’s busying himself by brushing Roach’s mane. Geralt can’t spot any injuries when he approaches. 

“Your brooding stare suggests you weren’t as successful as we had hoped?” Jaskier asks, turning to face him. 

“Someone will be here tomorrow,” says Geralt, and the way Jaskier raises an eyebrow tells him just how disgruntled he sounds when he says that.

“Well isn’t that fantastic! What a shame we will have to stay the night in a proper human settlement for once.” He turns away again, reaches towards a saddlebag in order to put the brush away. Geralt catches his arm before he even touches the leather.

“Huh-,” Jaskier says as Geralt almost yanks him closer and inspects his hand. “Is everything alrigh-”

“Blood,” the witcher states quietly. “Why is there blood on your hand, Jaskier?” 

Under his fingers, Geralt can feel the bard’s pulse pick up, and he lets go when Jaskier tries to pull away. 

“There isn’t anymore, I know how to wipe my hands, thank you very much!” Jaskier brushes his hand on the side of his pants, which was weird in itself. Geralt has never seen him voluntarily dirty his clothing before. “And if it wasn’t obvious already, I will of course point it out to you, since all your heightened senses don’t seem to help your denseness.” He trails off here for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice has lost the sharpness it needs for the criticism to be meaningful. “I’m now apparently also spouting roses, and well, the thorns don’t agree with me much. I knew flowery language would be the death of me one day.”

Geralt glares. Jaskier’s hand dips into his pocket and he holds out a white rose to him, attached to a stem with some very pointy looking thorns indeed. The thing smells even more of Jaskier’s blood. 

“It’s getting worse.”

Jaskier laughs, bright and clear, despite what must definitely be pain. “Thank you for that elegant observation.”

They make their way to the inn, which had just opened for guests, and pay for a room. Geralt wonders how Jaskier can still be up for jokes, how he can still be so excited about the fact that the tavern had more than one meal in the kitchen, when other matters were so much more important.

He also wonders why Jaskier offers the barkeeper an evening performance immediately. He is a strong person, he has to admit, to soldier through with a smile like this. Geralt decides to brood on his behalf, then.

-

Jaskier does, in fact, give a performance in the tavern that night. He decides to do so because hey, he can still talk quite well, he can get through one or two songs without having to cough too badly. He has to use every chance he has, in case he’s not going to sing much in the future. Of course he’s not thinking about that, because he is Jaskier the Bard, after all, and heroic bards that survive epic battles side by side with a witcher don’t die from some sad disease.

The tavern loves him, as it happens, and he notices throughout the evening that some people recognise him, or his songs, at least. It makes them nicer towards Geralt too, which in turn enables Jaskier to put a little bit more joy into his show. If he gets one subtle, lopsided smile out of Geralt during a performance, he knows he performed well. 

Jaskier wonders if Geralt will ever understand that at least half of the songs he sings are about him, and not just one. He has to take three breaks in total, when usually he needs only two, and of course he has to excuse himself outside for a few flowers during the last one. 

As he tries to swallow the taste of blood down and looks at the handful of blossoms, small yellow petals littering another white rose, he thinks of how terrible a metaphor this arrangement could be for Geralt; the colours match well.

He sleeps well that night, without once waking up to painful coughs.

-

Geralt doesn’t sleep well at all. He’s not the type to stay up all night and think, yet here he is. 

With every exhale, Jaskier smells more of flowers and blood. It’s a sickening combination, sweet in ways it shouldn’t be. With every minute, he can hear the air that filters through his lungs face more of an obstacle. They’re sleeping in the same bed because Jaskier, drunk, had insisted, and Geralt felt too annoyed (the word pity is not part of his vocabulary anymore) to deny him.

The cold and heavy feeling that has settled itself in Geralt’s gut keeps worsening. Just before falling asleep, Jaskier had held up the flowers to his face.

“They’re not too bad, really,” he had giggled, “They remind me of you.”

“Mh,” Geralt had said, because he didn’t know what tosay. He still doesn’t know what to say. These pests are not supposed to remind Jaskier of him. If anything, they were probably supposed to resemble the person he had irrevocably lost his heart to.

In his sleep, Jaskier mumbled something not even his ears could decipher, and the mattress shifted as Jaskier curled up closer to Geralt.

They were sharing the bed because Jaskier had insisted. Jaskier had insisted because he often felt cold during the night. Because he felt safer with a skilled fighter close-by. This is nothing new. This does not mean that Jaskier is in love with him. 

The cold feeling is dread, and he keeps it at bay with denial.

-

This doctor person that they meet in the morning is an absolute idiot. Jaskier takes one look at him and already knows exactly what type of person he is. The moment he mentions the highly esteemed royal family that he serves as a personal physician, it takes everything Jaskier has in him not to roast this man into the next century. Even Geralt sneers at the way he sorts his words into sentences.

He tries to sell Jaskier a disgustingly expensive tea, promises it will cure his ailment in less than three days, and Jaskier sees right through him. 

Only when Geralt takes over the conversation the doctor admits to being a fish out of water. He says it is probably a curse, from how illogical all of it seems. An anger like Jaskier hardly ever feels it boils up in him in the face of the man’s haughtiness, and he storms out of the room as dramatically as he can.

-

The door slams loudly and Geralt sighs. It’s true, he too really just wants to throw this overpaid healer out. He has to try this though, for Jaskier.

“Could it be this, uh...the lover’s disease?” Saying that name alone feels completely ridiculous. Geralt feels ridiculous. The doctor’s terrible choice of dress doesn’t make it better.

“That would be possible, if you believe in fairytales.” Geralt’s fingers itch to punch this guy. He says nothing, only stares, and once again that seems to do the trick.

“Say you did, Witcher. There wouldn’t be anything you or I could do. His love would either have to be returned, or it would have to be turned around.”

Oh. That is new. “Explain yourself,” Geralt demands.

“Well, obviously, if this strong feeling of love would be reverted into one of utter hatred, the plants would no longer be able to sustain themselves.” He chuckles, nervously, as if he doesn’t want to trust his own words. Maybe he never does. “If you want to believe in fairytales, that is.”

Geralt rises to his feet, ready to impolitely show the man to the door. 

“But as I said,” the doctor stands to take his leave, “There is nothing you would be able to do about that.”

Geralt decides that he disagrees.

-

The unhelpful little town is left behind rather quickly, to Jaskier’s lament. He had hoped to be able to stay at the inn for a bit longer, especially since his performance hadn’t gone all that terribly. But he also understands Geralt’s need to move on quickly. The witcher is prone to leaving difficulties behind, after all. Jaskier wonders idly how long it will take until Geralt is fed up with this worsening condition of his, and leaves him behind as well. Actually, he indeed wonders sometimes why Geralt tolerates his tagging along the way he does. While he is good at boasting about his own skill, deep down Jaskier is well aware the witcher sees him as a nuisance most of the time, especially when situations get, literally, hairy.

It’s not like Jaskier doesn’t know his own worth or value as a travel companion - after all, he single-handedly fixed this man’s entire prestige problem. 

That doesn’t change the fact that Geralt, in the past, has been more than blatant with his opinions of him. Their fall-out after that blasted dragon hunt still sometimes keeps him up at night, now, years later. Jaskier prides himself in having learnt from his mistakes. Also, Geralt had apologised, when they had met again. And for someone who claims not to have a heart, he had sounded pretty sincere, in his rage.

Jaskier asks Geralt what his plan of action is now. The answer is, as to be expected, a pensive hum and a barely visible shrug. All back to normal, it seems, except for the fact that over the course of just this day, Jaskier feels like it gets much worse with the flower-coughing. 

They only travel for the second half of the day, but to Jaskier it feels like two days without a break. 

-

Geralt wishes he could monologue to Roach in order to organise his racing thoughts. Talking aloud does help even him, curiously enough. It had taken him quite some meditation time, but by now he is convinced that the reason for Jaskier’s predicament was Geralt himself. Even in his mind he couldn’t put it into proper words, it seemed so far fetched; people don’t fall in love with him. They might mistake their fear for desire, they might fancy danger a bit too much, but there was nothing about him that would be actually lovable. Unless you were Jaskier, apparently, the one person in this world who sees terrible things happen and decides to find the beauty in them. None of this is fair, Geralt thinks. It isn’t fair that Jaskier would be punished for this ability, this talent, by fate like this. It makes Geralt so angry.

It isn’t fair either that he is the reason for this - he did nothing to facilitate it. It’s not even within his capabilities to love that deeply, if to love at all. No sense to be found in any of this. Therefore, a small and very much _feeling_ part of his mind argues, there must be a solution for it.

If not, Jaskier dies because of him. Geralt is not going to let that happen. As is typical for the way his life seems to unfold in general, the easy solution is not attainable. He doesn’t return this type of affection for the bard, is perhaps not even realistically capable of such a deep emotion. He must be feeling _some_ form of affection, sure. Geralt thinks of the words he could attribute to Jaskier without experiencing the urge to stare directly into the sun and lose all senses. _Friend_ seems a fitting one.

Jaskier is a friend, alright. There are two other options to save him, and yes, he is in need of saving. Geralt can hear how strained his breathing has become over the past few days, smells the blood, sees the colour drain from his face day by day as the flowers become more. It will not be long until that is all that is left of him; bloodless skin and tragic flowers.

Because Jaskier is a friend, Geralt knows that he wouldn’t be able to survive option one. Even if they managed to physically extract the growths out of his chest, if he with his basic human healing abilities were to wake up again after having his ribs and lungs split open - he would never be himself again. A Jaskier without feelings would be as good as a dead Jaskier. Geralt hates how cheesy this thought sounds, but he knows it to be true. The bard bases his entire profession, livelihood and passion on the way he experiences the world. It would be like draining a painting of its colours. 

That leaves only option two. Option two would, no, _will_ be absolute shit for the both of them, because it includes two steps. Jaskier needs to hate him. For that to happen, Geralt needs to become someone Jaskier would hate. Quickly. Time is running out, Geralt knows, with every single petal the bard - his friend - spits onto the ground. 

Jaskier’s survival is more important than going back to lonely travels and monologues that only Roach can hear. 


	2. Chapter 2

Normality returns in the most stressful way it could, in Jaskier‘s opinion. They stumble right into a nest of vicious little beasts with entirely too sharp fangs, just as night begins to settle in. Stumbling is an accurate word, because that is exactly what happens to him as he steps into a hole in the ground that marks the entrance to their burrow and immediately feels something sharp tear at his ankle.

Before he can finish shouting for Geralt to come help him, the witcher is by his side, sword drawn. He grabs him by the back of his doublet and lifts him out of harm’s way, although Jaskier is sure the seams of his sleeves take some damage. He barely catches the gleam of polished steel in the onsetting darkness, but the pitiful screeches coming from underfoot tell enough of the story. He takes a few steps behind Geralt and examines his ankle.

“By the Gods, I can’t believe it! This bloody thing ruined my boot! Look, Geralt, there’s an entire imprint of vile little claws in it, and it doesn’t even look heroic! The leather was expensive, damn it-!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and despite his bad sight in the twilight, he can see Geralt’s yellow eyes flash a warning. He stalks back to his mare and grabs a cloth from a saddlebag, quickly cleaning his blade before sheathing it again.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, while trying to feel for what must be an injury, unable to keep himself from sounding slightly petulant. “Fine shoes are hard to come by. Also, you almost tore my sleeve off.” Warmth is spreading under the leather. Maybe he is too surprised to feel the sting just yet.

“Next time I’ll let them eat your feet then.” Geralt takes Roach by the bridle and starts walking.

“It’s not like I did that on purpose!”

“Of course not. But if you weren’t chattering all the time, I would have heard them sooner.”

Jaskier sighs, and is about to retort something clever, but strangely enough Geralt adds an afterthought.

“I keep having to save your arse from your own mistakes.”

Jaskier stops following him for a moment, and just stares at where Geralt’s light hair contrasts with the nightfall around him. Wow, he thinks. Low Blow.

-

Geralt sets his jaw tight, and does his best to ignore Jaskier for the rest of the evening. For now, it’s the best he can do. He also ignores the coppery smell Jaskier trails behind, even if it worries him - regular humans are so much more prone to infection from dirty monster talons than he is. When Jaskier takes out his lute after they have settled down under a tree off the road to pass the time until their rations have warmed up by the fire, Geralt sends him the meanest glare he can. It has made brawly men recoil in fear before. Jaskier raises an eyebrow, shrugs, and takes out a tiny, fancy looking notebook instead.

He hears him mumble some words that all rhyme with ‘broody’.

Normally, Geralt simply wouldn’t comment on that. There are just some things you have to get used to when you travel with a poet. But he reminds himself that he can’t be ...friendly with Jaskier, not right now. “Don’t you dare,” he snaps at the bard. 

“I sincerely hope whatever crawled up your arse and died there is gone by tomorrow,” Jaskier says, underlining the end of his sentence with a few coughs. He curses under his breath, and Geralt turns away so he doesn’t have to see him struggle to get whatever flower it is now out of his system.

The next day proves that being rude to Jaskier really isn’t that difficult. Once Geralt gets in the habit of actively recognising his occasional annoyances at the bard, simply saying his snide comments out loud doesn’t take a lot of effort. The effort lies in stuffing all the compassion he feels for his friend in a box and shutting it close, not that he actually feels much of that. 

He can’t tell if it’s working just yet. Now that he thinks of it, Geralt has been quite mean to Jaskier before. He knows from experience that even if he barely reacts to anything the man says for days on end, Jaskier will not stop voicing his every thought or observation. That’s just how their friendship works sometimes.

Instead, Geralt makes a point out of not caring for Jaskier’s wellbeing. The injury from the evening before, judging from the smell and the way Jaskier is ever so slightly favouring his other foot now, is on the way to becoming problematic. When he asks Geralt for a helping hand bandaging it properly, he throws him the satchel with medical herbs and bandages without a word. Jaskier yelps when it catches him in the head. How humans ever survived with their bad reflexes is a mystery to Geralt.

-

Suspicion quickly creeps into Jaskier’s mind and starts building its small, ugly nest there. It is true that he runs into trouble sometimes, and that Geralt has to save him from himself every now and then. The same thing holds true the other way around, however, which he usually knows Geralt to be aware of. Something must be wrong with the man to be so stingy over such a small thing. Pondering on what could be wrong with the other keeps Jaskier nicely distracted from the still very much uncomfortable condition he is trying his best to somehow live with, thank you very much.

When he asks where they are heading now, and Geralt answers something about finding a new contract for a new hunt, the suspicion only grows. Geralt can’t just be ignoring his problem like this. Not when it keeps getting worse, which it is. He struggles to keep up longer conversations by now, without hacking and spitting flowers. His throat is in constant pain.

Maybe, he realises after a while, maybe this is exactly why Geralt is giving him the cold shoulder. He doesn’t deal well with uncertainty. A disease isn’t a monster he can take down with a sword. Jaskier smiles to himself, despite the taste of pollen and blood in his mouth. At least Geralt worries for him. 

That thought doesn’t change the fact that Geralt becomes more and more abrasive towards him, but it makes it easier to deal with. Fear manifests differently from person to person after all. For Jaskier it means being louder, sometimes bordering on hysterical. He’s sure Geralt can smell it on him, the way he smells it when they’re hunting some beast in the wilderness.

Perhaps that is why Geralt begins actively shunning him; it’s how he reacts to fear. He ignores it.

Jaskier knows he’s a very physical person. Hells, most of the time he is that on purpose. Touching people when talking to them keeps their attention on him, after all, and that is what he wants, not only as an entertainer. Small, casual touches on arms and shoulders are basically one of his trademarks. Of course he does the same thing with Geralt, except for that Geralt also has to live with excited tapping when Jaskier spots something noteworthy while he’s walking beside him. 

He never shoved Jaskier away for a touch on the arm before. It takes him by such surprise that he stumbles and lands in the dirt, where he sits in stunned silence and just blinks a few times. And Geralt doesn’t even help him back up. 

“What is wrong with you, you oaf!” He yells after him as he gets up to beat the dust out of his clothes. He doesn’t even get a grunt as an answer. 

-

His acting isn’t very good, Geralt knows. He’s good at playing the stoic fighter only because that is what he was made to be. He learnt how to shut down every thought and emotion neither necessary nor useful for his profession many, many years ago. Good acting, Jaskier had explained to him once, during a rather boring banquet they had to sit through for some reason, takes its foundations in empathising with the role you are playing. 

Maybe that is why being verbally terrible towards him doesn’t work out as well as he had hoped. Geralt has a tidy little mental list of how to get Jaskier to hate him as fast as possible. He tries to see this as some form of contract, too. 

The tavern they are staying in for the night doesn’t really count as one at all; it’s probably the biggest living room someone has in this little settlement, that just opens up its doors to the handful of people living there who don’t want to spend their evenings drinking alone every night.

Said handful of people goes positively mad with excitement when the bard enters, closely followed by Geralt. Their euphoria cancels out the witcher’s presence entirely, which in itself is impressive.

Immediately, the woman who seems to be in charge here, small and stout and red-faced, has her hands tightly clasped around Jaskier’s, her eyes glued to the lute he carries on his back. “Kind Sir, I can’t believe it! That a famous bard such as yourself might visit my home! Oh, what a day!” She tugs Jaskier away, who turns around to glance at Geralt with an apologetic expression, and places him in the middle of the room. “You will play for us, of course, am I right? I will fetch you an ale immediately, and for the witcher too!”

Geralt smothers the little flare of excitement for Jaskier’s success down, crosses his arms over his chest and inhales deeply. 

“There will be no performance tonight.” 

“But-,” the woman interjects. 

“No. The bard won’t sing. He sounds terrible. And we’re not here for amusement.”

The woman’s face falls, and she turns to Jaskier, whose face is entirely unreadable, pale eyes staring directly into Geralt’s. 

“It’s true,” he says finally, and his smile is dazzling. “My good woman, I apologise, but my friend here is right. I am sick at the moment, and weary from the road. I promise you however we will pay like regular patrons.” He hides a cough into his sleeve.

Geralt can basically see the disappointment she exudes, and the rest of the guests as well. Jaskier, meanwhile, is fuming with anger behind his friendliness. As soon as the excitement over their arrival has died down and people have gone back to their regular evening procedures, Jaskier leans over his bowl of stew towards him, snarling.

“What is your twice-damned problem, Geralt,” he presses out between his teeth. Geralt can almost feel his accelerated heartbeat through the wooden table.

“You are,” he growls back, forcing as much poison into his voice as he can. Jaskier doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re a terrible liar, did anyone ever tell you? Stop doing whatever it is that you’re trying here and get a grip. Do you think this is easy for me? I don’t know what’s happening to me, nobody seems to know how to fix it, and now you’re behaving like a toddler who just watched someone steal his candy!”

In less than a second, his hands are curled in Jaskier’s finely embroidered collar, his knuckles pressing up into his throat, and he pulls him forward, just so that his bowl doesn’t spill over. Jaskier’s face slips and for a moment he actually looks scared. Geralt can smell the hint of meadow flowers as his mind races to come up with something hurtful to say that doesn’t sound even more like a lie. But there is nothing, so he just glares, willing his eyes to look more intimidating. He feels like a fool.

Jaskier strains in his grip, turns his head to the side and coughs, and Geralt lets go of him. They don’t speak for the rest of the evening, and Jaskier doesn’t immediately follow him to the one guest room this little tavern has to offer. 

When Geralt wakes up in the morning, he finds Jaskier has made himself comfortable on the floor. It’s a pitiful sight, how the bard has curled up in the corner of the room furthest away from him, but it is a sign of success, too, right?

-

Jaskier wakes up to a tightness in his chest that is way worse than anything since this whole debacle started. He takes a deep breath to dispel the feeling, which launches him into a literal cough attack that lasts several painstaking minutes. Between his hands, shaking and pressed to the floor, soon lie several white and yellow flowers, interlaced with thorny stems, wet leaves, spittle and blood. He’s heaving, and he feels like he has to throw up.

“It’s getting worse,” he manages to say despite his trembling voice, trembling everything. He looks up when he realises Geralt isn’t next to him. He had expected him to be there, to at least come and look. The other man isn’t even in the room, and neither are his things.

Jaskier allows himself to sob. Then he gathers himself up, fights the dizziness that comes with how shallow his breathing feels, and wipes the tears from his face. A mixture of emotions that leaves him speechless is boiling in his stomach. Most of all, he feels helpless. Helpless and left alone. 

Geralt is always there when he needs him, in his own grumpy, rough, tough-love way. What is he doing wrong now for the other to leave him? Geralt had broken a gods-damned Genie’s curse for him. How is this any worse?

To make it all worse, he notices that his ankle is swollen when he pulls on his boots. Jaskier can barely manage a thank you towards the bleary-eyed tavern owner as he slips outside into the clear morning air. Roach is blowing little steamy clouds, Geralt is fastening his belongings to her saddle as usual. The familiarity of the sight stings, and so does the cold as he inhales, and he has to stifle a whimper. Roach’s ear twitches towards him. Geralt doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s there.

-

The days that follow unfold like this; Geralt ignores Jaskier, mostly. Not a single kind word meets the bard’s ears. Their only conversations revolve around food, or breaks, or shelter for the night, and all of them are initiated by Jaskier. Jaskier gets the message Geralt is trying to convey - his mere existence is a burden. It’s nothing new, to feel like that, but usually Jaskier can hide behind one of his colourful masks until the feeling passes. 

It hurts. He hurts. His lungs are filling with useless flowers, weeds, and he can’t get enough air to keep up with Geralt, and Geralt just doesn’t care. If he had anywhere else to go at the moment, he would leave. He can’t bring himself to do it, though, because even if this curse kills him at least he won’t die alone.

-

No matter how good Geralt is at fileting his feelings and feeding them to imaginary beasts in his mind, this dilemma is taking its toll on him, too. While he keeps his eyes glued to the road and his ears peeled for any sound coming from the world surrounding him, he simply can’t find focus. It’s been so long that he had to carefully curate every single of his social interactions - usually he just does as he does and the universe around him either goes along with it or doesn’t care. Manipulating someone isn’t easy without manipulating yourself first. 

Frustration grows, chipping away at his resolve to push this through. Jaskier is not giving up, still follows him like a miserable lap dog. In a way it makes sense; one who contracts a deadly disease over being in love is very unlikely to just abandon their project like that.

(A little whisper of doubt chimes in; if Geralt is mistaken, if he is not the object of Jaskier’s desire, then all this is in vain. But he can’t accept this potential complete helplessness.)

Geralt hates it, hates that he spends every second pondering how to make it worse for his friend, who is already so clearly suffering. Neither his gruffness nor hostility do the trick, except for making Jaskier’s eyes look a bit emptier. 

Considering how Geralt’s behaviour, however, seems to impact the speed with which Jaskier’s predicament worsens he realises he is trapped in a battle with time. It’s him against Jaskier, or the disease against Jaskier, and Geralt has to win. He’s not proud of his follow-up thought.

Back when they first met, Geralt had been more prone to physically lashing out whenever Jaskier got to him too much. He remembers very vividly how he had punched him right in the gut a good few times, even if usually as a reaction to something stupid or dangerous the bard had done. It had been to his own good, in some way; he had learnt from it. But Jaskier had also been younger, and a bit rowdier. By now, these types of punishments (even if the word itself feels icky to Geralt) come down to a slap on the back of the head, if at all. Jaskier had asked him, calmly and earnestly, years ago, to not be so violent with him. Geralt had respected that, and still does. He has a moral code, after all.

This moral code is now screaming at him, and Geralt struggles with himself to lock that away, too.

It feels terrible to wake Jaskier up during dusk with a boot to the side. The sound he makes would break his heart, if he allowed himself to have one. What’s worse is that Jaskier doesn’t protest, keeps quiet otherwise, even when his morning ritual of vomiting plant matter begins.

At the end of the day, Jaskier is still there with him. He limps behind, yes, and he keeps his eyes on the ground. Still, he stumbles, a lot, and Geralt fears that his eyesight is getting worse somehow now. A salty tang follows him, so maybe the bard’s eyes are worse for the tears spilling over. 

How badly Geralt wants to tell him that he’s doing this to help him, and that he will live. Maybe he will get the chance to apologise in a few years, when this is savely healed over. 

-

Jaskier has never been one to lose himself in sadness or despair. He has mastered the art of letting himself experience a feeling, no matter if good or bad or neither, for an appropriate amount of time, and then to write it into a poem, or a line in a song, or to weave it into a melody. Some people regard it as magic, even, how he does it, because he hardly ever fails to evoke similar feelings in his audience. He’s currently learning that all those skills don’t do shit for him when he can’t make music.

It adds to the pile of misery he’s in. His fingers are caught in a constant nervous half-drumming on his leg or arm, itching with the urge to put his feelings into some form of melodic relief. He doesn’t believe that whatever he would create right now would be any good, but if he could do as much as at least hum to himself he wouldn’t be losing his nerves the way he does right now. He feels like any minute, second now, he might just fall down in the grass and never get up again no matter what types of creatures were to nip at his ankles.

Every time the tiniest combination of almost-melodic sounds escapes him, he flinches. He doesn’t need more hurt to add to his body, especially not at the hands of the witcher. Jaskier has a theory by now, a theory that explains why Geralt is more of an inflamed nerve than he is, although he is the one currently slowly choking to death. Perhaps the flowers festering inside him have a special influence on witchers; he distinctly remembers Geralt mentioning something about how some flowers block magic, or increase it, and they are used in potions all the time as well. Of course dandelions and buttercups would make the man more choleric. They are Jaskier’s flowers, after all.

It’s a silly theory, he knows, but he thinks he has had a fever for two days now and he’s allowed to have silly thoughts.

And because Jaskier is Jaskier, and because he wouldn’t be a widely famous bard and hedonist if he didn’t give in to his perhaps self-destructive urges every now and then, he finds himself pull his lute towards his chest at some point during the early afternoon, warm now with the oncoming spring. He walks more than a good few paces behind, just to be safe, and with the first pluck on the strings he has to close his eyes and sigh. It’s been three days, and he can’t remember the last time he hadn’t at least strummed a little bit every few hours or so. He plays quiet, and soft, echoing the birdsong around him, without attempting to find a familiar melody or tune. It’s amazing how much a simple movement can ground and relax him like this.

He loses track of time for a while, forgetting even the gruesome pain burning in his chest.

He’s ripped out of his little refuge by an iron grip taking hold of the lute’s neck, crushing his fingers into the wood. He blinks and turns to see Geralt looming over him, a sharpness in his eyes and rage carefully tucked away behind them. Jaskier tries to pull the lute out of harm’s way. The grip tightens.

“I thought,” comes the witcher’s husky voice, “we were clear on this matter.” 

“Listen, I just wanted- ow, let go that hurts!” Jaskier can feel the metal strings dig into his skin, and he swears he can hear the delicately crafted wood groan under the pressure. He tries to free his hand, to no avail. 

He looks up into stormy yellow eyes, irises drawn into slits, pleading. 

“Don’t,” he begins, but his sentence ends with a terrible splintering noise. Snapping strings buzz past and a biting pain erupts in his wrist. The lute, its head cracked off at a terrible angle, falls to the ground, as Jaskier cradles his throbbing wrist close to his chest. He’s too surprised, too shocked, to scream, so he just stares. Geralt stares right back, brows furrowed.

“You won’t be doing that again.”

He leaves him like that, returns to his horse, as if he hadn’t just destroyed one of Jaskier’s most valued possessions. Jaskier moves the fingers of his left hand carefully, to check if they still move at all. Should he be grateful, when they do, that at least his hand isn’t broken as well?

-

Night is falling, and Geralt thinks he has played his best card for nothing. From the things he has on the how-to-make-this-worse list, breaking Jaskier’s valued elven instrument and damaging his hand is pretty much the worst he could do without … well. Without what? Without becoming someone he himself would despise for the rest of his life?

From his geographical knowledge of the area, Geralt can tell it isn’t far to the next settlement that holds the potential of being more than three brick houses and some starving goats. He can also tell that in the state Jaskier is currently in, he won’t make it to the town after that. 

And yet, still, his loyalty is unbroken. Geralt is still not someone Jaskier hates, although he fears him now for sure. 

Geralt sets up camp about a mile away from the village. He knows very well what he has to do now, to become a monster that Jaskier will hate, probably forever. He knows that mostly, not even monsters are subject to the bard’s hatred; interest and curiosity usually outweigh that, and if not, fear does not equal hate. That is the whole problem here. Geralt sighs, heavily, and leads Roach a good few paces away from the spot he picked out. She doesn’t need to see this.

The idea hadn’t taken long to come to him at all, but Geralt had fought it off a long time. He knows very well the kind of human-shaped monster even Jaskier despises from the bottom of his soft, gracious heart. It’s a last resort in every way possible.

He’s not nervous. He can consciously manipulate his heartbeat to be slow, and steady, and calm. His hands don’t shake as he pretends to prepare the camp the way he does every night, as he waits for Jaskier to catch up with him. He’s been trailing behind, but never too far away to get lost, Geralt made sure of that.

Jaskier’s feet drag across the floor as he approaches. He must be so, so terribly tired.

Geralt turns to face him, upright. Jaskier’s face resembles a death mask. 

“Come here,” Geralt commands, voice cold. Jaskier blinks blearily, as if he doesn’t understand that the witcher did in fact just talk to him, but then he walks up to him, eyes on the ground. Geralt feels his nostrils flare as the strong, sickly-sweet smell hits him. As Jaskier breathes out, thin yellow petals fall from his lips, and remnants of blood are sticking to them.

He puts his hand under Jaskier’s chin despite the bard’s flinch, tilts his head up so their eyes meet. Jaskier’s eyes go wide immediately, bright blue and utterly terrified. The skin under his eyes is dark purple and contrasts terribly. He opens his mouth as if to say something, is most likely about to ask a question, but all that comes out is a wheeze followed by a deep, wet cough. Blood lands on Geralt’s face. Jaskier’s expression turns apologetic. He has to close his eyes for a moment to gather his will, and then Geralt swiftly shifts his hand from under the other’s chin to around his neck.

The bard barely manages to choke out a startled little noise before Geralt takes a few quick steps forward, dragging him along, and causing him to fall. Jaskier lands on his back with a thump, and the air would be knocked out of him if Geralt wasn’t cutting it off entirely, bracing himself over him. 

Geralt can watch the shock on Jaskier’s face give in to panic, and within a second he is wriggling and punching and trying to pry off Geralt’s hand from his neck. The witcher’s reflexes are no match for him, and it is hardly an effort for Geralt to catch Jaskier’s flailing arms and press them to the ground, especially not since Jaskier can barely make use of his injured hand. Geralt uses his body weight to his advantage, and simply waits until Jaskier’s struggles grow weaker, until he has exhausted himself. 

Once Jaskier has calmed down a bit, although his chest is still heaving and his eyes frantically search Geralt's face for an explanation, he lets go, lets him breathe. Jaskier gasps and shudders as he forces air into his lungs in between coughs and more plant material. While a bit of colour returns to his face, Geralt moves on in his battle plan. Propping one knee on Jaskier's torso to keep him pinned down, he moves to kneel beside the bard, who has his head turned away in order not to drown on his own blood as he continues to hack and cough. He feels him shove against his leg weakly as he begins unlacing Jaskier's breeches. 

Jaskier stills when Geralt's rough hands touch his clammy, feverish skin. "What-, what are you doing," he croaks out, voice barely audible against the rustling of fabric as Geralt yanks the fabric down his legs. Another surge of strength goes through Jaskier, accompanied by an increased scent of adrenaline and a heartbeat skyrocketing even further, as Jaskier struggles anew. Geralt is trying not to tear his clothes apart, but it's difficult against Jaskier’s frantic kicking and punching, not that he feels them much. He almost gets away, wriggling like a fish out of Geralt’s hold. He has to smack him, hard, into the side of his face to get him to calm down again.

Jaskier whines. “Shut up. I’m giving you what you want.” Jaskier protests, so he grabs him by the shoulder and turns him over, mainly because he tries to save himself from having Jaskier’s horrorstricken face etched into his memory forever. Geralt settles between Jaskier’s legs, ignores that he has to trap them under his own to stop them from kicking out again just in case, and runs a hand under Jaskier’s shirt and jacket. He can feel Jaskier’s breath hitch at the contact, and the way the muscles twitch where he touches. He can even feel his chest expanding frantically; Jaskier is hyperventilating. He’s prey, trapped.

Geralt fumbles with his own pants, presses the heel of his palm against his half-hard cock. It’s the smell getting to him, he tells himself, and the heat of a body moving below him. With eyes half-closed he can ignore the bright red blood trickling from Jaskier’s head where his knuckles had torn his skin open, and his fever is close to what some of Geralt’s previous lovers had felt like in the throes of excitement. It takes a few purposeful strokes of his own hand to properly get himself going. 

Beneath him, Jaskier whines and coughs and sputters still, alternating between desperate soft noises to loud and rough ones. There are words in there, pleas, that Geralt pretends he doesn’t hear, and keeps his hand heavily on his lower back to press him to the forest floor. He pumps his own cock a few more times, catches some pre-cum on his fingers and then spits on them, knowing that there is now way that will be enough to get Jaskier through this without making him bleed more. 

Judging from the shriek tearing from Jaskier’s throat when Geralt shoves two fingers into him without much else of a warning, Jaskier agrees. “No! No, stop, stop, don’t-” he yells frantically, bucking up, trying to escape. The witcher ignores him, focuses instead on twisting Jaskier’s entrance open as well as possible. This situation really could use some oil, but that’s a luxury he can’t allow right now.

“Please,” Jaskier sobs, and Geralt looks up to see that he has managed to twist himself sideways, looking him straight in the eyes. Tears wet his face, and not even when he was dying from a djinn’s curse had he looked so desperate and helpless. “Please, Geralt, you don’t have to do this.” His voice cracks as he draws in a breath. “I’ll leave, and you won’t ever have to see me again, I promise, but please,-” another sob. “Don’t do this to me.” How he still manages to keep eye contact Geralt doesn’t know. 

To his horror, something dreadfully heavy and hot stirs in his gut. Geralt can take all the time he wants to evaluate and self-loathe because of it later, but right now he decides to let it guide him. He grabs Jaskier by the scruff of his neck, fingernails digging deep into sweaty skin, and leans over him. “You will leave,” he growls into Jaskier’s ear, “but first you will suffer.” With that, he slams the Jaskier face first back into the ground, where his next attempt to beg or scream or both is muffled by cold earth and dead leaves.

It is not exactly easy to navigate his cock to Jaskier’s arse with only one hand, but he manages. Under other circumstances he would have taken the time to appreciate the well-formed body under his palm a bit more, but all he can allow himself is to squeeze the supple flesh roughly, using this thumb to keep the ring of muscle open as he places his tip at Jaskier’s entrance and pushes in, slowly. Geralt curses at the slight burn he feels where skin is too dry and Jaskier is too wound up to relax properly; not that he blames him. He spits again, trying to ease his way in. Jaskier, beneath him, makes a terrible, high-pitched noise that lasts until Geralt has forced his way all the way inside him. 

He can see Jaskier shudder, hands digging into the ground tightly, feels him shake. Geralt takes hold of his hips, admires for a second how large his hand looks against Jaskier’s slim waist; he can see how Jaskier manages to score as many bedfellows as he does. Then, with a groan he can’t possibly hold back, he draws his hips back, and then snaps them forward. Jaskier’s scream reverberates through the forest floor, vibrating through Geralt’s bones.

He picks up a slow, forceful rhythm that almost shoves Jaskier across the ground. It gets easier after a few thrusts, presumably with the help of blood. It also starts feeling good, the carnal pleasure of having someone at your mercy turning his usually cool thoughts into a hot, hazy blur. Only when he realises that Jaskier is back to uttering almost complete words does he notice that he let go of his neck to better grab his hips, pulling them into his thrusts with force. Jaskier’s words are drowned out by the sound of skin hitting skin, and increasingly by Geralt’s own groans of pleasure. 

As the pressure below his navel builds, Geralt can’t stop himself from becoming more feral. No matter who he beds, he never lets himself be taken over by primal urges - he’s a tender lover, usually, even if his partner enjoys some roughness. Never before has he actively encouraged his craving for violence beyond what another human might find erotic, and he needs to remind himself that he can’t tear Jaskier to shreds right now. Has to remind himself that the tight, hot hole he is fucking into with abandon is not just that, but a friend he is trying to save.

A friend he has to make sure hates him after this. (A friend he hopes is actually in love with him, or else all of this is for nothing-)

His fingerprints already stand out in dark red on Jaskier’s skin when he removes his hand to instead dig his fingers into brown hair, slightly curly now from the sweat. Geralt jerks Jaskier’s head back, dragging his upper body into the air with it in a painful arch of the spine and a hiss. He brings himself closer and bites Jaskier’s neck, sinks his not so human teeth deep into the skin, where he can feel the other’s racing heartbeat flutter against his lips. Jaskier moans in pain and once again tries to shove him away, barely missing Geralt’s nose with his elbow. 

A feral growl escapes him as Geralt tastes blood. He presses Jaskier’s body against his own, jaw locked around his neck and a hand in his hair, and holds him there as he spills deep inside him. For a moment, he remains motionless, mind dangerously blank. When he lets go of the bard, he collapses on the ground in a whimpering, hiccuping heap. 

He draws back, unceremoniously pulling his dick out and leaving a trail of semen mixed in with almost pink blood behind. The scent is intense, a dangerous mixture for the part of his brain that screams mine, more and that he usually keeps locked down. 

Geralt watches as Jaskier rolls to the side, away from him, wrapping shaky arms around his torso and curling his legs close as if he could protect himself from him. His sobs are still there, quiet, hollow, and despite his screaming heartbeat Geralt can hear the air trying to get past the flowers still stuck in his lungs. The haze in his mind hasn’t cleared away completely, and Geralt realises with a shudder that he is not done here. The beastly desire is still there, sensing that he has not destroyed entirely yet.

-

Jaskier doesn’t understand anything anymore. Nothing about this makes sense. Not the dull, ever-present pain in his chest, not the dirt and stones sticking to his face in a gross, slimey combination with blood and spit and rose petals. And certainly not the terrible, searing pain at the base of his spine, where Geralt, his Geralt, never cruel and always just, had torn his insides open and fucked him, for the gods’ sake. He wants to vomit, or to get up and run, or to scream and curse at the witcher for brutalising him like this, but he can barely get enough oxygen to keep from fainting. Uncomfortable darkness is looming at the edges of his vision, has been for most of the day. He has never felt this close to dying in his entire life.

At least it’s over now, he thinks when Geralt doesn’t do anything but stare at him. He really wishes he didn’t, but he can feel those scorching yellow eyes burn into his skin. But he also wishes he could become one with the ground and disappear, and that’s not happening either.

A hand grabbing his ankle, tangled in the fabric of his breeches, tells him that he is wrong - it’s not over. Jaskier raises his arms to shield his face, just in case, as he is moved. Gods, every movement hurts. He doesn’t really know where or how he is lying, panic and exertion having made his thoughts slow and sticky, but suddenly there is a rough hand curling around his dick and his eyes fly open. He’s on his back, and Geralt is looming over him with a look on his face Jaskier has never seen before, although he immediately knows that it will haunt his dreams.

“So you were enjoying this, huh?” Geralt’s voice has a weird, hollow tone to it that makes Jaskier’s skin crawl. He wants to deny, begins shaking his head as he realises that his abused throat won’t make proper words.

“No, I wasn’t-, ah, fuck,” he whimpers; Geralt’s calloused hand slides up and down his prick and it twitches, growing to a proper erection under the attention, causing shame to make Jaskier feel even hotter. He squirms, and tries to kick again, anything to get away from this, but the witcher doesn’t seem to notice. 

Instead, he bends over him, his face terribly close, with a demonic glare in his eyes that used to remind Jaskier of gentle sunsets. “Don’t lie to me,” Geralt breathes. “I can smell your arousal. You get off on this, like a filthy whore.”

Jaskier shakes his head no, squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to block this out. It doesn’t make the hand jerking him off go away, and it doesn’t keep his hips from bucking up into it. Frustration and desperation claw their way out of his throat in an undignified moan. 

He sobs through the most painful orgasm he has ever experienced, and for a moment thinks he is blissfully going to pass out when the feeling overwhelms him. He doesn’t.

From above comes a growl. “I knew it. You’re disgusting.” It still sounds wrong somehow, but Jaskier barely hears it at all through the ringing in his ears. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and sees two things. Geralt’s hand, smeared with Jaskier’s seed, shockingly close to his face and promptly covering his mouth, and Geralt’s erection, still slick and standing proudly against the witcher’s white pubic hair.

His wail of protest is muffled by the large hand that presses down onto his face, and he is choking again. His lungs burn so badly he thinks they are about to catch on fire, and the smell of his own spent is bitter in his nostrils.

“Clean that up or I’ll break your nose.” Would that even matter anymore? Jaskier is in so much pain already. But he can’t breathe, and instinct takes over so he opens his mouth and pushes his tongue against Geralt’s palm. He never would have thought that a deep and guttural moan from Geralt would instill the exact opposite of arousal in him.

He can barely muster up the strength to fight again, but still he tries when the feeling of a cock nudging at his abused hole returns. Jaskier is already so exhausted; there’s no way he is going to live through this again. Especially not when he has to witness it like this, with Geralt over him, facing him.

His legs are on either side of Geralt’s body, who is not disturbed by Jaskier’s still futile struggles and sinks back into Jaskier. Another painful sob breaks from him at the intrusion, hot and heavy and searing through him like hellfire. There’s still a hand covering his mouth, otherwise he knows he would be begging for all he is worth. Geralt’s other hand has caught his wrists, both of them in one painful grasp, and is pinning them above Jaskier’s head. He’s still wearing his shirt and jacket, but never in his life has he felt this exposed, this helpless. 

Tears pour from his eyes and don’t stop falling as Geralt once more begins to fuck him. This time, the first few thrusts aren’t as slow and calculated. With a power and stamina that truly can’t be described as human, Geralt rams himself deep into Jaskier, hitting places their earlier position hadn’t allowed. Jaskier sees stars. Overstimulation makes it feel as if his groin was being struck by lightning, again and again. Almost all of Geralt’s weight is resting on his jaw and wrists, and he’s sure he’s bitten himself by now, the taste of blood is so prominent. His wrist must be broken, if not pulverised. 

He feels like he’s dying, like he’s being fucked to death by the man he loves. Maybe this is why Geralt is doing this to him - he is going to die either way, and Geralt is just granting him his last wish. Sudden hysteria makes him want to laugh loudly, but he still can’t get air into his lungs and Geralt is still rocking into him and it still hurts. Geralt is taking longer this time. The darkness closes in on Jaskier and he blacks out, only briefly.

He comes to again with much needed air rushing into him, and a second later the onslaught of pain and terror returns. Geralt’s face is less than inches from his face. He can see the white hair sticking to his forehead, the furrowed eyebrows, and something akin to insanity glowing behind the cat-like pupils. Never has Jaskier seen a monster as terrifying as this one.

Geralt comes inside him again, and there’s a disgusting squelching sound when he pulls out. Jaskier doesn’t look, instead stares up into the darkness above the trees, and pretends like he doesn’t feel the liquid drip out of him.

Bile rises in his throat and he begins choking, too tired to even move his head. Geralt gets up, and rolls Jaskier on his side with a shove of his boot. Blood, plant matter and other badly smelling things leak onto the floor as Jaskier retches.

After all this, he isn’t even allowed to suffocate on his own vomit. Distantly, he hears Geralt straighten his clothes, the clang of metal. He’s leaving.

“Wait,” Jaskier calls, so weakly he isn’t sure if he only thought it or said it out loud at all. “Geralt, wait.”

Despite anything, from the corner of his eyes he sees Geralt halt. He doesn’t turn to face him.  
Blood bubbles from Jaskier’s lips as he laughs to himself.

“Y-you coward,...come… come on. Fin-..ish it.” Between syllables, he gasps around flowers and the fat tears still rolling from his eyes. “Just...just kill me.” He doesn’t say please, because the pain overwhelms him. He can’t tell if the witcher moves or not, the world is swimming too much. Then, he passes out for good.

-

Before he fetches Roach, he hurries to the next stream he can find and washes himself off Jaskier’s scent. Geralt can’t stand it, the smell of terror and betrayal and utter horror, but not even the cold water can wash it away completely. Roach notices it, too. She’s too smart for a mare, anyway, and probably knows everything Geralt just did from the stressed twitch of his eyebrow. He leads her by the girdle back down the road they had come from just a while ago, away from Jaskier and his misery. 

Geralt is… fine. He’s calm. He’s sure of his victory against the gruesome disease draining the life from his bard, even if he can never call him his bard again. He did the right thing. 

Witcher and horse follow the road back for about half a mile. Then, he searches the saddle pockets for a specific potion, the one that makes the dark daylight to him and every noise ten times as loud. That way, he keeps an eye on the forest surrounding them, listening for Jaskier’s heartbeat, slowly becoming steadier again, and for all the creatures making their way through the dark and perhaps picking up the smell of blood and easy prey. He kills a few of them throughout the night, just for good measure. Not that he needs to prove to himself that he is still a hunter of monsters.

He’s killed monsters like himself before. Monsters hiding behind human faces, enjoying-  
No. He did a noble thing. Terrible, but imperative. 

He stays far enough away not to be spotted by him when Jaskier finally gathers himself up from the ground. He watches him stumble towards his belongings, to his bag with his spare outfit and his broken lute. He listens to him purge the remaining flowers from his system. Geralt isn’t close enough to pick out the smells, exactly, but he’s convinced the sweetness to them is abating.

Jaskier, just as Geralt had hoped, doesn’t stay in the forest for the rest of the night, but finds his way back to the road, and continues into the direction of settlement and safety. He hardly croaks out a word towards the sleepy guards at the wooden fencing surrounding the village, but they are good people and they let him in. The trail of petals the bard leaves behind becomes thinner and thinner.

That is all Geralt needs to know, and he spurns Roach into the opposite direction for good, until the mare is too tired to go on. He makes sure to get away as far as he can.

-

For three days, Jaskier doesn’t speak a single word more than he has too. He doesn’t completely realise what he looks like when he arrives in the village at dusk, and only notices later, when he’s been given a room in an inn that has a little tin mirror beside the straw bed, that half his face is bruised and swollen, that there is stains on his lips and doublet, a grotesquely detailed bite-mark at his neck. That he looks pitiful enough to be pitied. Somewhere under the splinters of his shattered pride, he doesn’t want to accept the help he is being offered. 

It is only that which makes him get through those three days, however, and later he is grateful. He is grateful because life goes on. He can’t close his eyes without seeing Geralt, and icy dread fills him at the prospect of sleep, because the witcher returns to him every time he does. He wakes up screaming. 

In turn, however, he no longer wakes up choking on meadow flowers and roses. No less than a day after-... after, his lungs are free. Free from dandelions and buttercups, free from white roses, and evidently free from any kind of love he had ever felt for Geralt. 

It takes a long, long time for him to feel anything but bitterness and betrayal again. Eventually, however, it does. He heals. His wrist had been set, and luckily not too badly damaged- a bad sprain, that was all. He buys a new lute as soon as he can, even if it can’t compare to an elven instrument.

-

More than a year later, when he is back to being Jaskier, one of the most famed bards of the continent, but with a few too painful songs taken out of his repertoire, he is handed a gift from a noble lady, who claims it is not from her but an anonymous sponsor. It’s a lyre, beautifully crafted from some type of bone. When he picks at the strings, they sound like an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very much appreciated! :)  
> I know the ending is just a bit strange. I’m really not good with not-open endings /D might have to add a little sequel some day.  
> I hope you enjoyed your stay here! You


End file.
